Threads
by ThereAreNoLines
Summary: Republican presidential nominee Spencer Hastings has a secret.


Each morning, as Spencer Hastings awoke, she swore that day would be the day she'd finally tell the truth. She'd give up the lie she'd been living, and let those parts of her life see the light. She'd accept the consequences. She'd accept the fallout. She'd accept every harsh word and worse that was thrown her way. It would be hard but she could do it. She would do it. She had to.

But every day, she failed. When she shook a voter's hand or planned strategy with her team or stepped up to the podium to deliver a speech, the words withered and died on her tongue. The dust swept through her, spellbinding her, convincing her that secrecy was necessary – in fact, it was preferable. No one needed to know her private life. No one deserved to, really. No one had any right to know that political discourse wasn't the only thing that got her blood pumping, late at night or otherwise. She was already brave enough to be the first woman to be a serious contender for the presidency – she didn't need to be _that_ kind of brave too.

So why did she go to bed every night feeling like a coward?

* * *

You meet her at night. Or in the early morning, when the sun blooming over the hills is the color of her hair. You come to associate her with the beginning or end of your days, your moon, your sun. A day cannot end unless you have her in some way – even if the distance of her voice over the phone is chilling.

Sometimes you do nothing but talk, but you never talk about _that._ Most of the time you don't talk about the campaign either, but sometimes the words that color your anxiety spill from your chest where you keep them, and you can't help it. In that case, she just listens, because that's what you need, and she knows that. Sometimes, there's splinters left in your hands from the podium and you can't let go.

Sometimes you lie there in silence, when words are either too much or not enough. You're bigger than her, and most times you hold her, and her head fits so nicely underneath your chin that it makes you want to cry. But the best nights are when she holds you, all night, or all morning if that's the case. She strips down to almost nothing and wraps her arms around you from behind. Sometimes she frees an arm to run her hand through your hair, if you need to be calmed down. Sometimes, she rests her hands on your stomach, pushing up your shirt, tracing small circles on your taut skin. Sometimes she holds you so tightly that you can't breathe.

Sometimes, there's no talking, but it's definitely not still or silent. Some nights or mornings, it's fast and desperate and she's gasping out your name as she rocks her hips up against your hand. Sometimes it's a rushed encounter in a copy room because you couldn't handle staring at her from across the room and not touching her or kissing her. You both leave discreetly, making sure there are no wrinkles in your clothes or flyaways in your hair, hiding the way the weight of your shame and hypocrisy slumps your shoulders. But sometimes, it's slow, and you worship every inch of her body with your lips and fingertips and she does the same to you. You can't get enough of each other. Sometimes, when this happens, you two whisper things, but you never talk about them afterwards. It's too much.

You are a liar.

She loves you in spite of it.

You hate yourself for loving her in spite of that.

* * *

"_It is with great humility, respect and awe that I accept your nomination for the Presidency. Your confidence in me, while I think and hope you all think is well placed, is a bit daunting. If I was a liar, I'd tell you all that I am completely not intimidated by the road ahead of me. But I do not pride myself in telling half-truths, and especially not whole lies. So I will be honest, and admit to you all that I am indeed frightened by the path before all me, before all of us. I'm sure you're all at least nervous too. We're going up against a popular, young, Democratic candidate, and while Mr. Kahn is a formidable opponent, we mustn't let his devilishly charming smile intimidate us. We cannot let any of the obstacles ahead of us deter us from the ultimate goal. Most importantly, we cannot let our fear become one of those obstacles. We must take it and use it for good rather than letting it make us vulnerable. We must pursue the greater good in spite of our fear – and that alone will help us to eliminate it."_

* * *

"Do you have any idea what this is, Spencer?"

Spencer leaned back in her chair, staring at the chart, the numbers displayed on it less than favorable. (God, she needed a cigarette. Or a martini. Or both. And a girl to wrap her legs around. No, wait, stop that.) "I expect you're going to tell me what it means, Aria." She said calmly, folding her hands on the long table. "So why are we wasting time?"

"Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." Toby, ironically her best pick for her running mater, muttered from somewhere behind her, She turned to give him a sour glare before looking back at her campaign manager.

"I was born on the wrong side of the bed, Tobias, moving on." Spencer rolled her eyes. "What do all of those dangerously low numbers mean to me, Aria?"

"These are your poll numbers, and correct….they are dangerously low. Especially among women, and that's where we need the vote most of all." Aria said, sitting down. "It turns out women don't like you very much."

"I didn't need you to tell me that, Aria." Spencer sighed, pushing her wavy hair out of her face. She didn't. She knew exactly what most women thought of her. (She thought it about herself too.)

"See? That's exactly what I mean!" Aria smacked the chart with her pointer, causing her to jump. "Women think you're a bitch They think you're a cold, calculating, unfeeling, masculine bitch. To further complicate things, men don't like you either – "

(Good for them. She doesn't like them either.)

" – you don't seem feminine enough to them. Men are threatened by powerful women, they're…I don't know, subconsciously afraid you'll cut off their dick while they're sleeping or something" It was only as Aria continued that Spencer realized her interruption hadn't been spoken aloud and she breathed an unnoticed sigh of relief. "But the tricky thing is, women who appear too feminine also appear too weak, or too volatile or…well, you get the idea."

"…so what do you suggest I do?" Spencer asked, after a long moment. "Because it sounds like you're asking the impossible. Aria, I can't please everyone."

"Yeah, well, you have to start by pleasing someone, and you're not doing any of that right now." Aria said. Short of having you bathe in estrogen, we're sort of limited. So, I hired you an image consultant – "

"Aria!"

" – who is going to assist you in bridging the gap." Aria shot her a sour look as she continued. "And you're going to comply or so help me God, I have no problem going to jail for attempted assassination of a political figure."

"…you won't last a day in jail." Spencer shrunk down in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest as she muttered her defeat. "Who is she?"

"She's – here now." Aria cut off briefly to glance at her phone. "Come on in!" She called, and as the door opened, Spencer turned in her chair to look at her new handler.

The scent of her perfume hit her first, but not in a bad way. She smelled like summer, light and citrusy, but with a heat that punched her in the face. Her blonde hair was styled in finger waves that fell to a blunt edge at her jaw, one side tucked back to reveal earrings that matched the sparkling, pale blue color of her eyes. These eyes were framed by glasses, darkly and thickly rimmed. She couldn't have been more than thirty, perhaps even younger than that. Her clothes were as impeccable as her make-up, (which was flawless,) a pin striped pencil skirt and a dress shirt with a ruffled collar. What little jewelry was tasteful and well chosen, her French manicure was immaculate…just by looking at her, Spencer could see why Aria had hired her. (But that didn't mean she had to like it, or make it easy for her.)

"Senator Hastings." With a pleasant, professional and dazzling smile, she reached out her hand to shake hers. "I'm Hanna Marin, I'm your new image consultant. Be advised, I'm rather strict when it comes to my clients." Spencer took her hand, trying not to think about how smooth her skin was as she shook it. "And even if I think you're wrong about…well, everything, it is still an honor to work with you."

And that was the moment Spencer Hastings knew she was in deep trouble.

* * *

You can't stand her at first.

She is everything you aren't – in fact, she is everything you hate about other women. Furthermore, she is smart. She can see right through you. And she never passes up a chance to make sure you know it, know that she has that sort of power over you.

You are dating someone at the time she starts running your life. Well, 'dating.' His name is Alex. He is attractive, smart, good business credentials – most importantly, he looks good next to you. You looked good together, you looked like you fit together, even though you don't, and it is little more than a friendship between you. Sometimes, not even that. (You tried it once, and it was awkward and it felt so many different shades of wrong that it makes you gag every time you think about it.)

When she meets him for the first time, she is pleasant as always, but as soon as the two of you are alone, she just looks at you. A knowing, smug look that cuts right into you. But all you do is look back at her, trying to keep your blush of shame at bay. It's all you can do. But she knows. And that terrifies you, because no one could know. You haven't told a soul since you realized, and the only people that have any inclination are the two or three women you've slept with in your entire life, and the people who paid them off.

"The two of you would look great on a postage stamp." She says derisively, and you struggle to contain yourself, fear and anger and frustration included. You can understand why she hates you so much – after all, the party you're running for hates everything she is. (Everything you are too, but that's less problematic, somehow.) "When's the royal wedding? More importantly, the royal wedding night? How are you going to cope with that?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." You bite out. Never before has anyone so brazenly spoken to you, so openly accused you of the truth. Sure, you've heard rumors, but you're a single woman in politics – of course there are going to be rumors. Every other time you have let them roll off your back, but something about her just makes you so defensive. (Not just defensive, vulnerable. Weak at your knees. But you'll never let her know.)

"You're a smart woman, Spencer. Figure it out." She's too close to you. You can't breathe, and in a good way, which means it's entirely bad, and you want to push her away, but your arms won't move.

"Whatever you think you know…you don't. Trust me." You get out, past the tension that his filled your chest and your throat, keeping more effective words from bursting out. "This is none of your concern."

"Oh trust me, as the person in charge of your public image, your lack of chemistry with your beard is most definitely my business." She hisses at you. "It is my job to make you appealing to white, middle America, but frankly, you're not giving me enough to work with. If you lose this election, it is going to be your fault. Not that I'll be broken up about it."

"Get out." You say, but you don't mean it and yet you do. You hate her, yet you don't know how to feel about her. Clearly she hates you too, which just makes your feelings worse and more confusing. You want her to go away but she's just so damn beautiful that you can't stop staring at her, and why did Aria have to hire her and not some gay man or something. "Get out." You repeat, because she's not moving and she's staring at you and you can't handle it. "Clearly you have no interest in helping me win, so just get out and save us both the trouble."

"You're right." With each word, it seems, she gets closer, and you try backing away, but she's always right there. "I have no interest in helping you win, because you represent everything that is wrong with this country. You hate the poor and disenfranchised, you hate the women, you hate the minorities, you hate the gays, and I am not going to stand for it any longer. God knows why you do."

"I am doing what I think is best for this nation, and I'm not seeking your approval." Stop. Stop. It's like you're suddenly aware of how fast the world is spinning, and you're its center of gravity. Hanna is the only thing you can see clearly anymore, and the entire thing has come upon you so suddenly, so severely and intense that you don't know how you manage to stand upright, let alone talk clearly. "And if we have to sacrifice some things for the good of our nation, then so be it. I'm not afraid to make the tough decisions."

"You're despicable." She hisses.

"You're infuriating." You hiss back.

Suddenly you're kissing her. Your hands are on her face, and you're kissing her. Her lips taste faintly of citrus. It's not a still kiss. It's not a calm kiss. It's a passionate, angry, oppositional kiss. Before you know it, you're pulling at her hair and you're hitting walls and objects and knocking things over. You're tearing at her impossibly perfect clothes because you want to see what she looks like all out of sorts. And through all of that, you're still kissing. It doesn't hit you exactly what you're doing until she's pushing you down on the couch and your blazer is ripped and thrown aside, and the buttons to your shirt are undone, leaving your heaving chest open to the air. "Stop." You gasp, turning away from the kiss, the connection shattering as panic and self-loathing begin to take the place of heat in your bloodstream.

"Spencer?" You pretend not to hear her. "Spencer." You try to shift out from underneath her. "_Spencer._" Hanna puts both of her hands on your cheeks and makes you look at her. "It's okay." She says softly, and you're surprised there's a piece of you, buried somewhere in your chest, that wants to believe her. You still find yourself shaking your head, as much as you want it, as much as you suddenly want her, you can't want it. You can't allow yourself to want it or to, God forbid, give in to it.

"No, it's not." The words ride on a rush of air, and your chest feels deflated as you gaze up at her. At some point, you must have ripped open her top, because the buttons are hanging by threads, like you are, and she's all bare stomach and black lace bra. "It's – I can't – "

"Yes, you can." If you weren't in such a compromising position, you would have been pissed at her for interrupting you. "Because no one has to know. The room is separate from the rest of the world. And you aren't." She leans close and her scent is overwhelming and her lips are soft against your ear. "Let yourself be human for once in your miserable life."

"You're such a bitch." You whisper, shaking your head, and you mean it, but you don't.

"Yeah, I know." She says softly, staring at you for a long moment. Her look is inscrutable. "…it's okay." She whispers against your lips, and you're gone. The last little thread holding you together breaks.

You couldn't stand her at first but now you don't know how you lived without her.

* * *

_"It's a hard fight that we have in front of us. But I believe you've picked the right person for the job. I've been involved in politics my entire life – I ran for student council in the fifth grade and never looked back. Rather unlike my opponent, who seems to have entered this field on a idealistic whim. And what has he done? He has raised taxes. He has expanded programs that need to be cut. He has taken away the attention from those who deserve it and given it to those who would rather have things handed to them. We need to refocus our attention on the people that have worked tirelessly to build a better America. We need to reinvest in business. We need to get back to our core values of individualism, free enterprise and self-reliance. Only by returning to what helped us become a great nation the first time around will we reclaim our rightful place and prestige among the other nations of this world. Only by restoring our faith in the individual, and recreating a strong moral fiber, can we go back to when this great nation was at its greatest."_

* * *

There was still a warm body in the bed next to her. Her eyes flickered open shortly after dawn, and the rays softly shining through the window threw light on her curves. She reached over, running her fingertips along them, along every fold and wrinkle in the blanket, savoring the moment, the way her hair smelled, the warmth of the blankets they were nested into. It was as if the world had shrunk to that room, to their bed, and all of the anxiety of their problematic meeting had melted away into nothingness.

Spencer felt the mattress shift beneath her as she turned to look out the window, at the dawn slowly unfolding over the hills – one perk of getting a private suite in the tallest hotel in DC. She couldn't remember a more perfect morning in all her life, and the only thing that kept it from being completely perfect was the fact that it had to end. That whatever they were, it couldn't last. It was a train on a track to nowhere, heading towards the edge of a cliff at breakneck speed with no destination in sight. But try as she might to consider that fact, she couldn't bring herself too. For once, she was living in the moment. If that was either good, or bad, or both, she wasn't sure.

She turned back over just in time to see Hanna's eyes flicker open. "Hey." She said softly as she settled back down against the mattress, reaching out and brushing her hair back. "You're still here."

"I am." Hanna replied sleepily, stretching her arms over her head, arching her back. "I knew that neither of us has anywhere to be this morning, so…I thought I'd stay. See what it's like waking up next to you, and trust me, you did not disappoint." She smiled a soft sort of smile as she leaned in, connecting their lips briefly. "Let's hope this happens more often."

"Mmm, that's a dangerous topic." Spencer said softly. It was. They had always veered away from it whenever they had journeyed anywhere even close to it. They both knew what kind of future they had. (None.) They both knew what could happen if anyone found out. (Complete and utter disgrace.) They both knew when they might have to end it. (At a moment's notice)

"No, just…" Hanna's expression alone let her know that it was finally time for something rather than the practiced indifference to their plight. "Spencer, we can't just keep dancing around this." Her hands found Spencer's under the sheets, in the warmth, folding her fingers tightly around hers. "We can pretend like this is nothing, like we can just drop it at a second's notice when we have to, but…I know I'm lying to myself, and I…I think…well, I hope you are too." Spencer knew what she was going to say before she said it. It was in her eyes as she drew a deep breath that shuddered in her chest. "Spencer Hastings, I love you."

"Hanna…" Spencer gripped her hands. It was exactly what she wanted to hear, but she hadn't wanted to ever actually hear it. The words pulled a faint echo from her, bouncing around in her chest but not quite making it out of her mouth. There wasn't enough time – there was a small beep from the door to her suite and the lock clicked as someone stepped inside. "Shit, hide!" She pushed Hanna towards the edge of the bed, unsure if she was grateful for the interruption or not as she wrapped her kimono around herself, sliding out of bed.

"I programmed the wrong schedule into your organizer." Aria didn't bother with any ceremony as she strode in, grabbing Spencer's arm and dragging her to the bathroom. "You have a press conference to be at in two hours, shower, get dressed, I'll have coffee waiting for you when you're done. And wear a dress, please? You're speaking to a group of women today."

"O-okay." Spencer said, glancing over her shoulder as she was dragged out of the room. 'Sorry.' She mouthed silently to Hanna, catching her eye as she peeked out from under the bed.

Was it a sign? God, she hoped not.

* * *

"Why are you running?" She asks you one night, as she's rubbing the kinks and knots out of your neck, and it feels so good, you're not sure how she expects you to answer. Her fingertips are infused with magic. (Something that you admittedly already knew.) Never before has someone's mere touch had such a placating effect on you. You marvel at every aspect of her, most importantly why someone as beautiful and savvy as she is would ever have any affection for someone like you.

"I'm perfectly still right now." You say, with a bit of a smirk, earning you a shot to the shoulder. You make peace with the shambles your life is in by using sarcasm. Sometimes, she doesn't get it.

"No, why are you running for President, dumbass?" She asks, resuming rubbing your neck. You lean your head back and sigh, barely biting back a moan as she moves her touch to your shoulders, where you store all your tension (According to her. You just know it feels fucking amazing when she does that.) "You're miserable."

"President Dumbass, that has a nice ring to it." You murmur, recoiling slightly as she pulls away. "No, no, no, don't stop, I'm sorry. I'll be serious, I promise." Her hands begrudgingly begin working your muscles again. "I just…it was the natural thing to do. I was a representative for Pennsylvania at 25, I've been there for ten years. I have a great pedigree, I graduated at the top of my class at Stanford, my family has been involved in politics for years…the party needed a new, young candidate that would garner mass appeal against Noel Kahn, so…I was the obvious choice. The sacrificial lamb, if you will."

She makes a noise of dissatisfaction, resting her head on your shoulder from behind. "You're smart, though…and sweet. You're compassionate. You have much bigger heart that I had imagined. Why are you in with them? You don't belong there, Spencer, with all of those old, bigoted white men. You don't believe in any of it, I can see it in your eyes."

"It's…it's not that simple, Hanna." You whisper, reaching up and laying you hand on her cheek, resting you're her against hers. It isn't. Nothing about you or your life is simple, as much as you want it to be. "I don't know any other way to think."

"It's not that hard, Spencer." Hanna kisses your jaw, and you turn away just slightly so she can't see the tears that threaten to drip off of the ends of your long lashes. "You know what's right, you just have to fight for it."

You shake your head. "It's not that simple, Hanna." You whisper your repetition. It isn't. It never will be. "I grew up thinking this way. I don't know how to believe in anything else."

"But Spencer – "

You shake your head, curling in on yourself, crumpling under the weight of it all. Your secrecy. Your past. The feelings you've swallowed, the memories you try not think about. The nightmares you hide, and the dreams you will never realize. "No, Hanna. It's a political party that fundamentally hates everything that I am. And I don't know how to not think that way…I don't know how not to hate myself."

* * *

_"It isn't my job to push LGBT equality on the nation. It isn't. It's my job to enforce it when it comes naturally. But my job isn't to introduce it. As President, my job will be to lead the nation in becoming successful and profitable and keeping it safe. It isn't my job to enforce policies on America that half of the country doesn't want. It's not my job to infringe on the rights of states to do what they want. I am not going to do more than my job historically and constitutionally allows me to do. That would be completely missing the point of being the President of the United States. I'm not a despot, I'm not royalty, and I'm not going to force anyone to do anything. And that's why you should be voting for me – because I am going to be doing the job given to me and focusing on those responsibilities rather than spending time, money and energy on things that are none of my business."_

* * *

Spencer knew something horrible was going to happen that day the moment she woke up. It was a feeling that had settled in the very fibers of her bones. It was a feeling she was used to, a feeling she had experienced all throughout her life, a feeling that had almost never proven to be wrong. So with a heavy heart, she slipped out of bed. Which was unfortunately empty, and would remain that way. (She's wasn't Hanna's only client, after all.)

Someone spilled coffee on her shirt, but that wasn't it. She messed up numerous times during her speech at rally in Pennsylvania that day, but that wasn't it either. No, it was something much worse, and the sense of dread that was building in her only made every little mistake, event, hiccup, slip-up, that much worse.

But of course, as she had known before, that was nothing close to what was headed her way.

Spencer took a deep breath, drinking in the last of the autumn breeze as it blew through Philadelphia. Her hands rested on the cool metal of the railing that ran along the edge of the balcony at the conference center she was at. The dread had built up in her stomach like concrete, solid and unpleasant, and all she wanted to do was go back to her room, and sleep through it, and wait for the next unexpected, terrible event in her life to occur.

She knew he was there before he alerted her to his presence. "Mr. Kahn." She said softly, closing her eyes to the breeze. "Always a pleasure. I just love these bipartisan events, don't you?"

"Ms. Hastings." She glanced over as he stepped up beside her. Even she could see the appeal. He was classically good looking, his smile devilish, his eyes bright and seductive. He had her beat on his looks alone. That she could admit. "The pleasure is all mine."

"I'm sure it is." She smiled a bit as she looked up at him. Nuances, attacks, politics, words, speeches, general sentiments aside, she liked him as a person, and respected him as her President. She had no animosity towards him, and simply refused to play that part, as much as her handlers wanted her to. As far as she was concerned, that would only make things worse. "Congratulations on your numbers, they're…really something to be proud of."

"Now, now, Spencer, yours are nothing to sneeze at either…you're stealing the female vote right out from under me." Noel laughed a little bit, sighing. "Listen…Spencer, there's something I need to speak with you about." He cleared his throat, and suddenly Spencer's stomach lurched, and she knew exactly what was coming. The thing she had known about since her first instance of consciousness that day.

"Lay it on me, Noel." Spencer sighed, closing her eyes again for a moment, only opening them a moment later, as she leaned over the edge of the balcony just slightly.

"Someone…at one of my campaign offices brought me these." She reached over when prompted, taking the slim envelope. She knew what it was before she shook it out into her hand, but for good measure, she did it anyway. The pictures were printed on good paper, glossy…they looked good too. Her and Hanna sharing an intimate moment alone in her hotel room, captured on film by a sneaky bastard with a telescopic lens. If she wasn't already used to the constant invasion of privacy, she would have been sick to her stomach seeing these. (Mostly, she just felt a twisted sense of relief.)

"These are lovely, do you mind if I keep them and take them to be framed?" She asked, not looking at Noel as she slid them back into the envelope, thankful she was able to keep from trembling, having had anticipated something of this caliber for much of the day.

"Look, Spencer…I like to think that, in another life, we would be great friends." Noel said, sliding his hands in his pockets, shifting nervously, presumptuously, as if he was the one who had something to be nervous about. "So that's why I intercepted these before they went into the proper channels. But I'm not going to be able to catch it every time, and I'm warning you…the American people aren't going to like that one of their candidates is a liar, and more gravely, a hypocrite. And I'm not going to keep the truth from them. Not that I think you're a bad person for this, I think I somewhat understand, given your platform. But that's precisely the reason why I won't keep it from them if it continues. If you don't believe in your platform, then…what's the point? Why should the people trust that you'll believe in them when you can't believe in your own party…when you can't even believe in yourself?"

"Noel…" His name didn't even sound like a word to her. In a way, what he has done was so much worse than a big, public scandal and widespread disgrace and humiliation. She deserved that. This, this piece of an agenda thinly veiled with kindness…she didn't like feeling used. Especially for Noel Kahn's personal satisfaction. "So what? If I keep seeing her, you're gonna tell the world."

"I won't." Noel said, nodding to his service secret agents as he prepared to step away. "But someone else will."

The only thought on her mind as she returned her gaze out to the rest of the city, leaning against the banister was that Noel Kahn was a master politician, and that when she inevitably lost to him…perhaps it wouldn't be entirely undeserved.

* * *

Even though you have been preparing yourself for this moment for months now, you aren't ready for it. You feel like you're back in high school, about to take a test. Your palms are sweaty, you're shaking, your stomach feels hollow and it aches beyond anything you've ever felt, but it's nothing compared to your heart. You can feel every heartstring, every thread pulling taut, stretching, ready to snap in half when the time comes. She's the most important thing in your life – you knew that already, of course – but you aren't prepared for the extent she has woven herself into your threads, for how much it's going to hurt when you rip them apart.

"You knew this was coming." The words feel like poison in your mouth, bitter and thick, coating your tongue, and you get them out as soon as possible, before she's even taken her coat off. You can't even look at her, but you can picture her face, and somehow that makes it worse, her parted lips, her clear eyes, the color draining from her skin. You had talked about it, yes, but you were both living in a fog, in a fantasy world where it would never have to happen. Knowing about it would never reduce the shock. "Hanna, this has to stop."

"What happened?" Hanna is trying so valiantly to remain calm, and once again, it makes you feel worse, because there's only one way this can end. "There has to be some way we can fix it. I mean, you've paid off other people before, can't you do it again?"

"Noel Kahn himself gave me these pictures." You show her one of them, and you still can't bring yourself to look her straight in the eyes. "He held them back this time, but there's not enough money in the world to stop it if this happens again."

"You don't know it will happen again, Spencer." God, you love her so much. God, you hate her for trying so hard. She crosses over to you, and puts her hands on your chest, holding your lapels. "You don't. We'll be more careful, that's all."

"No, Hanna." Nothing hurts you more than saying no to her, but you have no other choice. Well…you do. But it's not a choice you're prepared to make, not by a long shot. "No, after tonight, after…after right now, this has to be it. I'm sorry…but we talked about this, you knew this was a very likely possibility."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it, Spencer." Hanna says. She's still not letting go, if anything, she's gripping you tighter. All you want is for her hands to peel your blazer off of you, and the rest of your clothes too, but they can't. Not now. Not for the foreseeable future. "Baby…would it really be so bad? If the truth got out, I mean…sure, things would be messed up for a while, but you don't…you don't believe in any of that stuff anyway. And you're miserable. Wouldn't this be for the best?

"No, Hanna." She has asked the question you were hoping she never would, and if anything, that just seals the deal, because if she loved you the way that you wanted her to, she wouldn't be doing this to you. "It wouldn't. It would ruin everything I have ever fought for, and I can't take that chance. I'm _sorry_."

"No, you're not." She's backing towards the door, and it feels all wrong, and you realize too late that this is the opposite of what you thought you wanted. "You're not sorry at all. And you know what? Neither am I. I deserve someone brave. Someone who will fight for me. And that's not you. You are fighting harder for something that you don't believe in than you ever will for me, and I am done." There's a thousand word pile-up in the back of your throat, but you stand there motionless and you watch her in silence. "You are a coward, Spencer Hastings." The door slams. Truer words have never been spoken. You're a coward, and you've known it all your life. And for the most part, it's worked out for you. But you've never met anyone like Hanna. And you've never had anyone love you the way that you needed, rather than just the way that you wanted.

* * *

_"I know things may be looking bleak right now, but we have to keep our eyes…keep our eyes forward, looking onward to the future. That is what is going to get us through this race, and through the next four years – focusing on the future and…and moving forward. And that's what we're going to do. But in order to do that, we have to look to our past, to figure out what worked then, and if it will work now. In the past, we've succeeded by investing in free enterprise, and keeping the issues simple, and not…and not trivializing social issues with silly debates. I'm not going to…to make this an election about things that are…I mean, aren't important to the success of the nation as a whole…and that's a promise I'm…going to keep…"_

* * *

"You're losing it." Spencer didn't turn as she heard Aria behind her, focused on the new channel, which unfortunately corroborated what she was saying. Not that she cared much, at least, not anymore. She leaned back heavily in the reclining desk chair she sat at, gripping the arms so hard, her knuckles turned white. "And in more ways than one, Spencer, what is going on?"

"It's none of your business." Spencer said softly, sinking into the chair, trying to relax. Her entire body was tense, not that she wasn't used to it, but the lack of something to relieve her tension…now that was the problem. She only craved one thing to chase it away, and that thing was probably flirting her way through wine bar at that very moment, and the thought of that only made her more tense. "Aria, I'm not in the mood for this right now."

"Then when, Spencer?" Aria said. "When are you willing to talk about this? Because I don't know about you, but the rest of us care about this race. Let me rephrase that, the rest of us _care_. I don't know what the hell happened to you."

"Aria, stop." Spencer replied tersely, massaging her temples, feeling a migraine coming on. Just another thing to add to the list of physically manifested symptoms of heartache. She had never felt so much before, and it was all terrible. She turned her head against the leather covered cushion of the chair. Oh God, Hanna had gone down on her in this same chair. She could remember it in vibrant detail, the ghost of the encounter's heat swelling up through her, only achieving to make her more melancholic. (As if she needed help.) "I can't do this right now."

"Well, you have to." The short brunette snapped. "We are losing. And whatever personal shit you're going through, deal with it or square it away for the time being, because you have worked way too hard for this to just…give it all away. You have people depending on you, and it's time to shape up."

"No." Spencer said suddenly, finding herself standing without any memory of the action. "No, you worked too hard for this. I haven't had my heart in it…you know, I don't think I ever had my heart in it." There was one place her heart had been as of late. That wasn't it. "Everything we have achieved has been entirely your doing, and truth be told…I'm sick of it." She reached over, grabbing her coat. "There are far more important things than this election, Aria. The sooner you realize it, the better." Her words stung even her as she strode out the door.

She could only wonder if her newfound autonomy was too little, too late.

* * *

"They called Massachusetts for Kahn."

"You got Pennsylvania."

"He's got Arizona."

"They called North Carolina, and it's you."

You barely hear them. Tonight, your eyes are fixated on the numbers. Ticking up rapidly in blue, much more slowly in red. You know you have lost. The rest of them aren't willing to accept it, they're still calling it a tight race, but you know. You are always acutely aware of your failures, you always have been. It's not a quite sixth sense, but it's there, somewhere, and it's telling you that you've lost…more importantly, it's telling you that Hanna's there, somewhere. And other than the numbers scrolling along faintly at the back of your mind, that's the only thing that matters. She is almost all you can think about, and the race is but one mere thread among the many that hold her to you.

You wonder why she's there, if out of spite or malice, or something else. You aren't sure which one you would prefer. Affection would make you feel inescapably guilty. Spite would just fucking hurt. Either way, it's more than the race makes you feel. When you started this almost three years ago, that was the last thing you had expected to think. Three years ago, you were indoctrinated, fired up, excited and nervous, and this was the only thing on your mind. Now you despise it more than anything because instead of being everything that you wanted it to be, it has instead robbed you of that. It has robbed you of the woman you are supposed to be. It has robbed you of your courage. It has robbed you of your conviction, though it depends on it. Most importantly, it has robbed you of the love of your life. (You're brave enough to admit that now, although if you're only admitting it to yourself, how much bravery is that really?)

There are pats on your back, people telling you to keep your chin up, that all the votes aren't in yet, and you still have a chance, but what the fuck does that matter to you? You sit there and smile back at them and tell them you haven't lost hope. In some ways, that's the truth – you never had any to lose. It was only her that made you hopeful in any respect. The last time you can remember feeling anything was when you were with her, not before, not after. Perhaps that's because emotions pale in comparison without her to jumpstart them. Or maybe you just don't know how to have them, or translate them into actually feeling anything. Not without her as a dictionary.

It's becoming apparent to you what you must do, but the thought terrifies you. It always has, it always will. Fear is the one thing you remember how to do, how to feel, how to live by, and that's what's keeping you quietly seated in the leather chair, instead of tearing through the crowds outside in search of her. But you're sick of it. You're sick of fear and all it makes you do or not do, you're polarized inside and it hurts, as the particles of your being separate and fight over these two sides of yourself, and it's all you can do to just sit there and smile as though there wasn't a civil war being fought inside of you.

Finally, the numbers are too disparaging for anyone to continue to believe that there's even a chance you might prevail, and the race is called. You aren't even the slightest bit disappointed, only relieved. Finally, finally, it's over, and you have a chance at feeling like more than just a pawn, a chance at feeling like an actual human being with worth who deserves more than to rot in a pit made of her own self-loathing. This is when you genuinely smile, out of relief. You accept the pats on the back with humility, but you need no consoling. It's over. This entire terrible ordeal is over, and you are so glad for it.

They bring you out to speak, and you do, wonderfully, at least for the first half of it. You're scanning the crowd, trying not to revel in their obvious disappointment – bigoted fuckers, the lot of them – when you see her. She looks as perfect as ever, her hair swept back into a French twist, dressed to perfection. She doesn't look at you, though…rather, she's looking at you on the screen, inscrutable, impersonal. Not nearly the way you'd like. Suddenly, you begin to stumble over your words, the wrong ones falling out. You can only look at her. The race is not what you've lost that night…it's her.

It hits you. That's the thing you fear the most. Losing her. Nothing else seems scary in comparison, not your fear of public opinion, not your fear of backlash, and not even your fear of yourself. Your fear of failing. Your fear of crumpling under pressure. Every single one of your fears, biggest, littlest, irrational, understandable…they seem like nothing as you look at her and realize she is lost to you.

You stumble through the rest of the speech that was written for you, and you almost stumble off stage, until you realize something – she's there. She doesn't have to be, but she is there, and even if it's out of spite or the off chance that she still feels something for you, it means that she still cares about you. And you used to be afraid of her emotions, as well as your own, but those are buried now, buried under the landslide of losing her. And there's a little bit of light shining through, but it's not reflecting off the threads of your fears. It's glinting off of your courage, which you had long since thought lost.

You don't know what you're doing until you've done it, and you're on the floor, grabbing her arm, ignoring her shocked expression along with those around her. You can't hear her over the rise of chatter, but that doesn't matter. None of them matter. If they weren't so loud, you'd think it was just the two of you, alone in that giant conference hall. But you're not, and that's the important thing. You're smiling, and you're terrified, but you can't stop. You're like the train, headed over a cliff, but you couldn't give less of a fuck about the outcome.

You tug her over to the first camera that's still broadcasting live. "Is this brave enough for you?" You whisper, just loud enough for her to hear, and before she can answer, you kiss her. You kiss her hard. You cup both of her cheeks, and you kiss her, because you love her, and you finally don't care if anyone knows. She kisses you back, either out of shock or more, and for an instant, the camera isn't gone, and the chatter disappears, and it really is just the two of you, interwoven threads and all, trembling, tasting, kissing like you're coming up for air.

You do come up for air eventually, and you turn to the camera, feeling crazed because of your sudden courage, your act of bravery or maybe even desperation. (Was there really a difference?) Before she can speak again, you turn to the cameras. "I am Spencer Hastings, I am the defeated Republican presidential candidate, and I'm gay. My love is not a political statement. So don't try to make it one."

There is uproar. Amidst the jeers and the boos and the hisses, you can hear some clapping, some cheering. Amidst the small outpouring of support, you can hear her. "…you did it." Hanna reaches up and touches your face, lips almost against yours again, whispering. Your name sounds like poetry coming from her mouth. "Spencer…you did it."

"I did it because I love you." You whisper back, and you kiss her again, throwing your arms around her, beaming because you can't help it. You can feel all of your broken threads begin to mend themselves, knit themselves back up again. Maybe you'll be a whole person, eventually. But until that day, she's there to help you mend and fill the void. And you love that. You love her.

And, you think, maybe it isn't anyone else's business who you kiss, who you love, what really gets your blood pumping. But that doesn't mean they don't have to know.


End file.
